


An American Werewolf In Scrubs

by lapsus_calami



Series: An American Werewolf In Scrubs [1]
Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Doctor Derek Hale, F/M, Gen, chief of medicine gerard argent, first part in a series that will be updated very sporadically, gratuitous use of the plot of Scrubs, internal medicine intern lydia martin, internal medicine intern stiles stilinski, janitor coach finstock, nurse allison argent, scrubs au, seriously its just scrubs with teen wolf characters, surgical intern scott mccall, wrote it for fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall, best friends since forever, are fresh-faced interns at Sacred Heart. Stiles hopes his first days will go well but finds them more difficult than anticipated when faced with a slightly sociopathic Dr. Derek Hale, an intriguingly intimidating fellow intern Lydia Martin, the disturbingly odd janitor with crazy hair focused on stalking him, and the embarrassing nickname of "Bambi" curtesy of Allison Argent who is perhaps the only sane person in the whole hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An American Werewolf In Scrubs

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly I am on a binge of clearing out works of mine that I finished but never posted. So here's a Teen Wolf Scrubs AU. I can claim neither the characters nor the plot in this one; only this exact and specific repeating sequence of the twenty-six letters of my native alphabet and the image at the beginning.

** **

**An American Werewolf In Scrubs**

When Stiles was eleven years old he decided he wanted to be a doctor. The hospital in Beacon Hills had become kind of a second home to him for the three years his mother was sick, and the doctors and nurses had really gotten him and his dad through her death. Since then Stiles had dedicated his life to becoming the best doctor he could be. And it was finally paying off.

He’d never been a good or a deep sleeper. He slept lightly and he slept infrequently. It had been a good perk for him going through medical school, the whole not needing much sleep and being able to adequately function on two and a half hours of sleep in as many days. But, per his father’s request, he’d spent the last few months regulating himself to a more healthy sleep schedule. It’d been working, Stiles sleeping on average a solid six hours each night from midnight to six, but last night he didn’t sleep.

Stiles reached out smacking his alarm as it began to ring obnoxiously, sitting up with a grin and the feeling of nervous energy buzzing under his skin. Because today wasn’t just any other day. It was his _first_ day. And he was so ready for it.

* * *

Sacred Heart was a typical hospital, even if it was a bit outdated in regards to its construction style and general decor. Like all hospitals, it was constantly bustling with activity and filled to the brim with a stimulating, if somewhat depressing, aura. Not surprising considering the entire building was old enough that it probably couldn’t even remember its better days. Not that buildings were sentient in the first place, but whatever. If buildings _were_ sentient, Sacred Heart would probably have a severe case of dementia.

Stiles skipped up the stairs to the entrance with an extra bounce in his step. The sliding glass door slid open, and then Stiles was officially beginning his first day. Orientation—if a lawyer consistently repeating “being sued is bad, you do not want to be sued, the hospital does not want to be sued, do not get sued” and a short conversation with his resident could be considered an orientation—yesterday hadn’t counted. He slowed, taking in the commotion with a sort of eager glee. Nurses and orderlies whisked around with or without patients, a child was crying in a corner held onto by a frantically speaking man, and a bedraggled woman was cowering by the counter. It felt like coming home.

“Good,” a nurse said appearing suddenly by Stiles’ elbow and causing him to jump. “Could you go drop a N.G. tube on the patient in 234 and call the attending if the lavage is positive?”

Stiles looked around, almost expecting someone of importance to be standing behind him. But no, it was just him. “Ah, um.”

“Yes, I’m talking to you,” the nurse said. “So?”

“Uh, sure,” Stiles said.

After four years of pre-med, four years of med school, hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid school loans, Stiles finally realized one important thing—he didn’t know jack shit.

Yep, four years pre-med, four years med school, and orientation yesterday did not prepare him for this.

* * *

The lawyer, Greenberg Something or maybe it was Something Greenberg, stood at the front of the room continuously droning on about lawsuits to Stiles and the rest of the interns. It was pretty unnecessary, actually, as malpractice and lawsuits had been drilled into their brains over and over by this point. Bad, bad, bad. Don’t do it, and, if you do, don’t get caught. And for heaven’s sake never admit fault. It wasn’t a difficult concept. Stiles had lived by those very same principles growing up with the Sheriff as his father.

“The hospital doesn’t want to be sued, you don’t want to be sued,” Greenberg said. “Let’s be honest, no one likes being sued. Being sued is not a good thing.”

Stiles yawned leaning over to nudge Scott. Scott was his best friend. Had been since his mom had given Stiles a dollar to buy skittles from the hospital vending machine during one of the many times Stiles had been hanging out there and then invited him and his dad over for dinner. Bad move on her part perhaps, as Stiles had since become a permanent fixture in her life. Melissa had been a driving force, along with his father, in getting Stiles to actually apply for pre-med, despite numerous people saying he’d never make it past that point, and had gotten him through the several mental breakdowns that had come with medical school.

Scott and him had roomed together in college. And again in med school. And they had gotten accepted by the same hospital for their internship. It was a cycle and it worked.

“Are you as bored as I am, man?” Stiles asked.

“No one is ever as bored as you are,” Scott said. “Try and focus would you?”

“Lawsuits are bad. Don’t get sued. Blah blah blah. I think I’ve got it,” Stiles muttered, sinking down further in his seat.

“Finally, Doctors,” Greenberg said, writing ‘Alcohol + Surgery = No-No’ on the board before forcefully underlining the ‘No-No’ part an unnecessary six times.

“This is for you, Scotty.” Scott flicked his ear, never taking his eyes away from the board. Stiles frowned rubbing his ear with an exaggerated wince. The, “ _I can’t get drunk, asshole, remember?”_ went unspoken but not unheard.

“If you make a mistake, call me,” Greenberg said empathically. “Please, do not, and I mean do not, admit it to the patient or the patient’s family, especially if there is a death involved. Of course, if the patient is deceased, you can feel free to tell him or her, uh, anything.” Greenberg laughed. It was actually kind of creepy.

“So,” Stiles said as it became clear the lawyer was done talking, “I found us an apartment—”

Scott shushed him as an older doctor—like an actual doctor with a white coat and everything—entered the room, looking around with a large smile stretched across his aged and wrinkled face. “Listen up everyone,” he said cheerfully, “I’m Dr. Gerard Argent, and I’m your chief of medicine. We’ve got some exciting times ahead, so I want you to think of me as your safety net, because I promise you, we are a family here. Now, I bought pizza in case you’d like to stick around and mingle with your fellow interns after or before you talk with your residents. Go get ‘em, doctors.” He chuckled, gave them all a thumbs up, then left the room as quickly as he’d entered.

Stiles raised an eyebrow, turning to share a look with Scott before saying, “Okay, that was weird. But I like him.”

“Something’s off about him,” Scott said cocking his head with a frown.

Stiles shook his head. “Dude, you’re paranoid. He bought us pizza,” he said as if that made the man a god, which, to be honest, it kind of did in Stiles’ mind. “We gotta get some of that.”

The penthouse, which must be an affectionate name because it didn’t really fit, was filled with a few ratty couches, an old TV attached to the wall, a small table that look like it would fall apart if someone sat one more piece of paper on it, the obligatory coffee maker and basket of cereal bars, and an old Pac-Man video game that several of the other medical interns were clustered around.

Stiles snagged a piece of pizza from the box taking a huge bite and dropping onto one of the couches. It was far more comfortable than it looked. Scott copied him, somehow managing to hold two slices of pizza neatly in one hand.

“Freak,” Stiles said around a mouthful of pizza as grease dripped down his fingers.

Scott smiled at him and took a bite out of both slices. He chewed for a moment then swallowed before saying, “So the surgical interns are going to go grab a beer…” he trailed off a bit at the end giving Stiles a speculative look.

Stiles snorted, glancing at the interns flocked around the Pac-Man game. “The medical interns are having a Pac-Man tournament. Apparently we’re all twelve.”

“I love Pac-Man. It’s a guilty pleasure,” a smooth voice said from behind him. Stiles choked on his pizza, inhaling a few chucks of pepperoni and crust as he twisted around in surprise. A young woman was standing in the doorway, and she was hot. Long strawberry blonde curls that framed a perfect face were held back by a headband of matching color to the purse slung over her shoulder and perfectly plucked eyebrows rose challengingly at him over wonderfully green eyes. And Stiles was in love.

“Me too,” Stiles heard himself saying. “I love playing it. I love watching it played. I just love it. Pac-Man is awesome.”

The girl sniffed, laying a finger contemplatively on her chin as she regarded Stiles and Scott with slightly narrowed eyes. At first glance she appeared sweet and naïve, but she definitely gave off the impression that she could make the world stop if she wanted to.

“I’m Lydia.”

Lydia. _Lydia._ It was a perfect name, for a perfect woman. Yep, Stiles was in love.

“I’m Stiles, this is Scott,” he said pointing to himself then his best friend who had a gleam in his eye that said he knew exactly what Stiles was thinking.

Lydia furrowed her perfectly manicured eyebrows. “What’s a stiles?”

Scott laughed into his shoulder, trying and failing to mask it as a cough, while Stiles flushed. “It’s a nickname. For…you know what, it doesn’t matter.”

“So, Lydia,” Scott said recovering from his coughing fit and sharing a significant look with Stiles. “You medical or surgery?”

Lydia smiled faintly. “Medical,” she said flipping her hair of her shoulder. “Nice to meet you. See you around, boys.”

Stiles stuck his tongue out at Scott, who looked kind of like a kicked puppy, before scrambling off the couch to follow Lydia from the room. She glanced over at him, smirking slightly before tossing her hair back once more.

“You heading to the ICU?” Stiles asked

Lydia nodded, smiling sweetly. “Yeah, you?”

“Yep, me too,” Stiles said fighting the urge to practically bounce down the hallway.

“Cool.”

“So,” Stiles said, dragging the word awkwardly. He couldn’t walk in silence. Could not do it. He’d tried it once. Felt like he was going to have an aneurysm. “Why, uh, why medicine?”

“What? Don’t I look like I could be a doctor?” Lydia asked, a bite to her tone.

Stiles cringed. “No! I mean yeah. I mean, uh, I’m confused. I just. I was wondering what, uh, made you choose medicine?” he said feeling like he was shrinking in size with each word.

Lydia glared at him a moment more before laughing. “Don’t look so terrified. I’m kidding.”

Stiles laughed, slightly hysterically if he was honest. Damn, Lydia was scary. He was done for. “Yeah, right. I knew that.”

Lydia nodded indulgently. “Right. So every male in my family is a doctor. My dad, my granddad, my brother. Guess I just wanted to show them I could do everything they can do,” she said. “Scott’s pretty cute.”

Stiles stumbled over his own feet. Gracefully. Okay, that was a non-sequitur. But if Lydia liked Scott, Stiles would just have to be mature about it. Like the adult he was. Yep, a mature adult. “He’s getting married,” his mouth answered without permission.

“Anyway,” Lydia said as if she hadn’t brought up the attractiveness of his best friend and then abandoned the subject just as quick. “I got better board scores than my grandfather, my dad, and my brother. I know what you’re thinking.”

No you don’t, Stiles thought, I need to get my best friend engaged to someone fast or you’re going to know I lied to you, and I already know that you are a vengeful and slightly evil person, and I am totally screwed.

“I doubt that,” Stiles said stepping ahead to reach out and open the door to the hallway.

Lydia continued like Stiles hadn’t spoken, “The whole having to be the best and Miss. Hyper-Competitive thing. And you would be right.” She pushed her hand onto the door, slamming it closed with a resounding clang.

Stiles stared at her wide-eyed. Fuck, he was going to die. In a hospital. On his first day. Murdered by a beautiful women. There were worse ways to go, far worse.

“I like to be the best. I will be the best,” Lydia said a sharp glint in her eyes. “As long as you understand that, I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

Stiles blinked. Someone had apparently not gotten out of med school unscathed. “Okay,” he said. Or squeaked. Yeah, it was more of a squeak. How manly. Scott was never allowed to know.

“Good,” Lydia said, grinning full out now. It was terrifying. Gorgeous, but terrifying. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Stiles trailed after her uncertainly into the ICU, hanging a step back even after they found their second-year resident over by the busy nurses’ station.

“Lydia Martin and…Stiles Stilinski? Is that right?” the resident asked, frowning at Stiles. He nodded wearily; he should have taken his father’s advice and changed his name. Or picked a ‘better’ nickname.

“Great,” the resident said tucking the clipboard behind his back and looking about as thrilled as Stiles felt. “One, I am your resident, Dr. Matthew Daehler. Not Matt. Never Matty. Just Matthew or Dr. Daehler. Two, here are your Manuals. These can answer any basic questions you have so don’t bother me, ever. Three, don’t be a moron and open your manual up in front of a patient. Four—”

Stiles accepted the Intern Manual turning it over in his hands, flipping through it and skimming some of the pages as he glanced periodically up at Matt, sorry Matthew, who was still going on through his list. Some people made really quick impressions, and usually, those people made bad impressions. Like Matt who may as well be screaming ‘I’m a tool’ over and over at the top of his lungs.

“Finally,” Matt said drawing Stiles’ attention back to what he was saying. “These are your pagers. From now on, they control your life, got it? Good. Now move it.”

Stiles stared at the pager in his hand, turning the small block of plastic over and rubbing fingers along the screen. Finally.

* * *

The nurse was still standing next to him, staring at him skeptically.

“So here’s the thing,” Stiles said when it became clear she was absolutely aware of how lost he was. “I’m supposed to be up in intensive care—”

“Good,” the nurse said smiling. It was kind of insincere. “We just turfed him up there.”

Stiles’ confusion must have shown on his face because the nurse was shaking her head with a sigh and explaining. “We transferred him to ICU.”

“Was this before or after you turfed him?” Stiles asked slowly, trying to get his brain up to the speed of the hospital.

The nurse scowled and rolled her eyes. “That’s what turfing means.”

“Oh,” Stiles said feeling about two inches tall. “I knew that.”

“Sure you did,” the nurse said.

Stiles’ pager went off. He grabbed it looking at the screen; paged to fourth floor. “Sorry,” he said pushing past the nurse and running towards the elevator, “gotta go.”

The fourth floor was busy, people hustling around in a nightmarishly sporadic manner. Stiles spotted a nurse pulling a patient down the hall on a gurney with an orderly, quickly weaving between several people to sidle up beside her. “Hey, I was paged?” he said.

The nurse glanced at him, an understanding smile stretching across her lips. She had a really beautiful smile and the look of someone who smiled a lot. “Aww, first day, Bambi? Don’t worry, Allison will take care of you,” she said carefully steering the gurney around people and objects.

Stiles furrowed his brows, mouthing the term of endearment to himself. It had an oddly charming ring to it, but he was definitely no Bambi. He looked closer at the nurse; she was pretty—laugh crinkles around her eyes, wide smile, fair skin contrasting with dark hair and maroon scrubs—but carried with her a sense of sureness that said she’d kick your ass with no problem if you crossed her.

“Don’t look at me when we’re moving someone,” Allison said.

Stiles pulled his thoughts back to the moment and refocused on Allison’s face. “What? Why?” he asked. Then promptly ran into lamp, sprawling on to the ground and landing awkwardly on his backpack. Ow, who leaves a _lamp_ in the hallway?

He scrambled up from the floor, bouncing back quickly from years of practice—he’s always been, ahem, _graceful_ —and darting after Allison into the room. The nurse looked over at him with a small smirk as she hung an IV bag. “We’re waiting for Dr. Hale,” she said. Stiles nodded dropping his bag and coat by the door. Dr. Hale, if his memory served correctly and it usually did, was one of the attending physicians at Sacred Heart. He stepped out of Allison’s way as she moved around the bed with a purpose, fidgeting awkwardly and trying to figure out if there was anything he was supposed to be doing.

He was rendered practically speechless when Dr. Hale entered the room. If Stiles was less of a man he would be cowering in a corner. Dr. Hale was tall, probably in his early thirties, and had the persona of a steamroller; well if a steamroller was personified it would look like Dr. Hale, who’s eyebrows conveyed all by themselves their owner’s lack amusement at life in general.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles started, clearing his throat in an attempt to get rid of the uncertainty clinging to his voice, “Hi, Doctor, I’m—”

“Don’t care,” Dr. Hale said snapping on some latex gloves. “Place an IV for me.”

“Okay, we’ll talk later,” Stiles said weakly turning to grab the items needed to place the IV.

“Personal question, Allison,” Dr. Hale said as if Stiles hadn’t spoken, pulling his gloves on with a final tug. “Do you spray your perfume on or do you keep a tub full of the crap and just splash around in it every morning for an hour or two?”

Allison scoffed. “I smell nice,” she said, unfazed.

Stiles sniffed unobtrusively catching only the faintest whiff of strawberries. It was hardly overwhelming; and she did smell nice. The needle slipped in his hand, and he refocused his attention on placing the IV. He just had to _focus_ , and this would be easy. He’d done this to plenty of cadavers before, he could practically place an IV in his sleep. So this guy was alive, big deal! Just poke the needle through his skin. Poke it through his nice living flesh. No problem. Just do it. Like right now, Stiles. He set the needle against the patient’s skin, hands going clammy at the thought of breaking through it.

“Time’s up,” Dr. Hale growled. “Do that for him, please.”

Allison sighed but gently nudged Stiles away. He handed the needle over without complaint stepping back out of the way.

“I’m also going to need to get an ABG, Allison.”

Stiles blinked. “Why are you telling her?” he asked.

Dr. Hale glared at him. “Shut up and watch,” he ordered pointing at Allison efficiently placing the IV with no hesitation.

“Aww, be nice to Bambi,” she said as she secured the IV with a piece of surgical tape. “It’s his first day.”

Dr. Hale rolled his eyes but ignored her remark. He leaned over the patient, checking his vitals and saying, “This guy needs to stop trying to die on my lunch break.”

Stiles frowned feeling slighted on the patient’s behalf. “That’s a little insensitive,” he said softly under his breath. Dr. Hale froze and turned his glare up to Stiles. Stiles swallowed. Damn, that was a mistake. The man had some impressive ears.

Dr. Hale straightened, tugged his gloves off, and slingshot them to the wastebasket. “This man is ninety-two and has full on dementia. He doesn’t even know we’re here. For heaven’s sake, he’s three inches from Allison’s chest, and he hasn’t so much as flinched.”

Allison chuckled as she adjusted the patient’s pillow. “That’s so sweet.”

“Uh, well, what about his subconscious?” Stiles asked. It was a firm belief of his that every patient should be treated with respect regardless of condition. Call it naiveté or whatever, but these people were still _people._ They cared. Their families cared.

Dr. Hale drew his eyebrows together, full on scowling now. It was almost scarier than Lydia. Almost. He leaned down abruptly speaking directly into the patient’s ear, “To be quite honest sir, you smell like a frequently used port-a-john.” Stile’s jaw dropped a bit as Dr. Hale jumped back raising his hands like he was expecting a response. Of course, the half-dead old guy did nothing. Dr. Hale lowered his hands. “By the grace of all that is good, I think we’re going to be okay. But from now on, when I’m in the room, you’re definitely not allowed to talk,” he said.

Oh wow. This dude was tough. And his superior. Stiles gave him a thumbs up visibly deflating in relief as Dr. Hale left the room.

Allison chuckled, patting his arm affectionately. “Don’t worry, Bambi.”

“It gets better?” Stiles finished hopefully.

She snorted. “Oh, God no. It gets worse. But you learn to handle it.”

Stiles sighed, pager going off again. He was being summoned.

“Go on, Bambi, I’ve got it.”

* * *

After taking a quick detour to drop his coat and bag off at his locker, Stiles dashed back upstairs. Then downstairs. Then back upstairs. Then down to labs. Up to the ICU. Down to the morgue. Up to general admissions. Repeat, do-si-do, mix it up, promenade home.

The morning was full of more of the same as his first patient. The patients came in, Stiles was summoned, he had a nurse place IVs and catheters and anything else that required actually touching the patient, and Stiles fumbled about like he hadn’t spent over a hundred grand on schooling to do those very things. It was kind of disappointing really. And by that Stiles meant he was disappointed in himself. He’d run into Lydia a few times as she was darting around in a self-important hurry looking and sounding a thousand more times competent than Stiles felt.

By the time rounds started Stiles actually felt like he’d gotten into some kind of routine. Meet new admits, have the nurses do any procedures, run around like a chicken with his head cut off to do tests and labs. It was working for him.

Rounds seemed like a great idea to Stiles, kind of like being on a game show and full of information for the medical interns. Plus, Stiles could actually do this, adequately, all by himself.

Dr. Argent directed the interns to the next patient waiting until they were gathered around to ask questions. “Mr. Stilinski,” he said. “Can you tell me what ailment causes an excess of amino acid and protein metabolism end products to build up in the blood?”

Bingo, Stiles knew that one. “Uremia,” he answered without missing a beat.

Dr. Argent smiled. “That’s my boy.”

“Uremia may lead to a symmetric sensorimotor polyneuropathy that tends to affect the lower limbs more than upper limbs, and is more marked aistally than proximally—” Stiles continued, everything he knew about uremia running through his brain and straight out his non-existent brain to mouth filter.

Dr. Argent chuckled holding up a hand as if to physically stall Stiles’ words. “Whoa, sport. Who stuck a quarter in you?” Stiles shut his mouth with an almost audible click of teeth, flushing and wishing he had a hoodie to bury into. Dr. Argent flicked the patient’s covers back humming approvingly. “Nice clean job with the foley catheter,” he praised.

Stiles flushed more glancing at the nurse by the bed; he’d had her place it. Unfortunately, he was still afraid to touch anyone. The nurse rolled her eyes but said nothing. Stiles mentally gave her a giant bear hug.

Lydia dashed in then, thankfully taking the attention off Stiles. Her hair was pulled back messily, tied up in a bun, and she seemed a little frazzled. Stiles had been thinking off and on about Lydia all day; she was slightly anal-retentive, absolutely scary and wonderfully assertive, a complete and utter know it all, and still somehow completely stunning. It was a paradox.

“Dr. Martin, you’re late,” Dr. Argent said.

Lydia nodded pulling a pen from her hair. “I know. I got puked on. And seeing as it was the fifth time today, I needed to scream at something for a few moments. And change,” she said.

“Nothing wrong with taking out some frustration,” Dr. Argent said. “You’re off the hook if you can tell me what to watch for in a uremic patient.”

Stiles’ brain instantly piped up with the answer, still working on processing through anything he’d ever read or heard about uremia. Lydia opened her mouth immediately but said nothing, a look of confusion then horror washing over her features. Stiles winced, knowing the feeling of brain failure all too well. He leaned over slightly, whispering in her general direction, “Infection.”

She blinked then spoke, loudly and with confidence. “Infection, sir.”

“That’s my girl,” Dr. Argent said. “Moving on.”

“I knew that answer,” Lydia said as soon as the rest of the interns had moved on with Dr. Argent to the next bed.

Stiles nodded fighting down a grin. “I’m sure you did.”

“I was just flustered,” Lydia said brushing a stray hair behind her ear.

“How could you not be?” Stiles asked, playing along and acting perfectly innocent.

“You know, what with the—”

“The puke? The constant questions? Dr. Hale?” Stiles suggested. “I know”

“Right,” Lydia said. “Good. That said, thank you. If I can ever do anything for you…”

Stiles did grin this time. “You can let your hair down again.”

Lydia looked at him, unsurprised and not amused. “Can I wash the puke out first?” she asked blandly.

Stiles pretended to deliberate for a moment. “If you want.”

Lydia eyed him speculatively, then smiled like she was on to something sweeping her gaze from Stiles’ head to feet then back up again. “We’ll see.”

* * *

After rounds it was back to the same hustle and bustle that had encompassed the morning. Stiles made an aborted effort to place an IV but chickened out at the last moment. Allison placed it for him. Again. He was seriously in love with that woman too, even if she had apparently decided his name was Bambi. Having been called just about every name under the sun before settling on Stiles as a safe alternative, he found he didn’t really give a damn. Not to mention the fact that he did kind of feel like a deer in the headlights for about seventy-eight percent of the day. It was almost depressing. Almost.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dr. Hale asked. Stiles jumped, the other man having somehow managed to sneak up on him as he caught a few precious minutes of downtime in the lounge while he’d waited for Dr. Hale. He gathered himself quickly, standing to tell Dr. Hale just why he’d paged him, but the older man cut him off before he even started, pushing the old woman in the wheelchair he’d brought with him off to the side. “Please tell me you didn’t actually page me to ask how much Tylenol to give Mrs. Lenzer?”

Stiles wilted a little, swallowing, but forced himself to voice his concerns. “I was worried that it might exacerbate the patient’s—”

“It’s regular strength Tylenol!” Dr. Hale said, interrupting once more. It was actually quite annoying and if Stiles wasn’t so invested in doing well here he might have actually said something. You know, verbally as opposed to just setting up a running litany of profanity at the man in his head. “Just have her open her mouth, toss a handful at her and whatever lands in there is the correct dosage,” Dr. Hale growled.

Stiles frowned, drawing his eyebrows together in a poor imitation of the impressive furrowing Dr. Hale was sporting. “But—”

“No,” Dr. Hale said, and now he was being downright rude. Not that Stiles was surprised. “You’re violating the rule, remember? No, don’t answer that. Just be quiet.”

Stiles shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Dr. Hale was an actual living breathing person. Dr. Hale sat in the chair furthest from him—completely ignoring the woman he’d brought in, the jackass—pulling out a pen and beginning to intently mark up a chart. Stiles deliberated for a long moment, weighing how much he valued his life against the potential outcome of actually trying to talk to the other doctor again. Eventually he settled on his default you only live once policy and took the seat directly opposite of Dr. Hale. The man didn’t acknowledge his presence, seeming to actually get more engrossed in his chart. Having done a lot of chart work himself today, Stiles could testify that they just weren’t that damn interesting.

“Dr. Hale,” Stiles said, clearing his throat a bit, “I was just wondering if you had any advice you’d care to share—”

Dr. Hale flared his nose. “Don’t kill anyone,” he said shortly.

And, yeah, duh. Thank you, Dr. Hale, for those stunning words of wisdom.

“Dr. Argent tells us to stay positive,” Stiles returned, knowing he was poking a sleeping bear with the statement—all the interns knew the attending and chief of medicine did not get along by this point—and curious as to the reaction he’d get.

Like he’d expected Dr. Hale clenched his hand around his pen. He looked up, glaring from beneath angry eyebrows like he wanted to rip Stiles throat out. “Pay attention because I’m only going to say this once. Dr. Argent is the most evil human on the face of the planet and may actually be the devil himself; I haven’t ruled that theory out yet. So don’t you ever give what that man says even an _ounce_ of credibility. Got it?”

Stiles blinked. “Sure,” he agreed, because how else were you supposed to respond to something like that? “It’s just, uh, this,” he said waving his hands around at the hospital, “wasn’t really what I was expecting. Labs and tests and charts, it’s all grunt work. Plus most of my patients are, uh…” Stiles paused glancing at the woman still sleeping in her chair, seeming completely unaware to her surroundings. He lowered his voice all the same. “They’re kind of older and checked out…mentally.”

“Welcome to the realm of modern medicine, Nancy,” Dr. Hale said. “Bureaucratic nightmares, paperwork out the ass, and advances that keep people who should have died years ago, back when they lost what made them people, alive.” Stiles glanced uncomfortably at the woman as Dr. Hale ranted, feeling a little bad for bringing this up since Dr. Hale apparently had no idea what a conversational whisper sounded like. “Your job, Newbie, is to stay sane enough that when someone comes in that you can _actually_ help, you aren’t too brain dead to function, which, for you, may actually be a lost cause already. For the love of all things sacred, _what_?” Dr. Hale snapped as Stiles fidgeted guiltily.

“Do you think we should talk about this in front of—”

“Her?” Dr. Hale said pointing his pen, the cap of which was covered in teeth marks Stiles noticed absently, at the lady in the wheelchair. “She’s dead.” Stiles jolted, immediately snapping his gaze to the woman and staring at her. Good lord, where to start with how wrong this was.

“Another piece of advice, Tyler. Push around a stiff, nobody asks you to do anything. Except for you, because you’re an idiot.”

Pulling his eyes away from the, apparently, dead woman, Stiles refocused on the man across from him. “Thanks, you've been super helpful,” he said trying to dial back the best he could on the sarcasm.

Dr. Hale rolled his eyes no doubt picking up on the derision Stiles hadn’t completely filtered out. “Fine. You want some real advice? They find out you’re having the nurses do all your procedures they’ll throw you out on your ass so quick it’ll make your head spin,” he said.

Stiles flushed and dropped his gaze finding it impossible to look Dr. Hale in the eye at the moment. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew having the nurses do his procedures was not a good habit to get into or a good practice to lean on, but hearing Dr. Hale put it out there that bluntly stung. Caused a hot wave of shame rush through him, the likes of which he hadn’t really felt since high school. Dr. Hale sighed irritably and stalked from the room leaving Stiles to himself and his shame. And the dead woman. Fuck.

Stiles let out a long breath of air glancing at the clock and internally swearing. He looked at the dead woman, wondering if he should be able to tell—she certainly didn’t _look_ dead and Stiles had spent enough time with cadavers that he should _know_ —and wondering if it would be disrespectful to talk and swear at her like she was his therapist. He stared for a moment longer, deciding that, no, she really didn’t look dead, and wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with her, if anything. Dr. Hale had brought her in here, but Stiles really wasn’t counting on the man to return for her.

He leaned back on the chair, rocking it on to just the hind legs as he nibbled at his thumbnail. Contemplated if he should take her down to the morgue or just leave her be. Surely Dr. Hale would come back for her.

“Stop staring at me,” she snapped, jerking with a raspy cough.

“Oh my god!” Stiles yelped, flailing backwards in shock. The chair toppled with a resounding clatter and Stiles groaned from where he’d landed on the floor clutching at his chest and wondering if he was too young for a heart attack. He pushed his forehead against the floor, uncaring of the filth that probably coated the linoleum and just trying to bring his heart rate down from the speed of a hummingbird’s wings to something slower. Like a freight train maybe.

He swore colorfully, no longer caring if the woman heard him or not; the words were muffled into the floor anyway. And she was a right bastard, just like Dr. Hale. In fact the two of them had probably planned this whole shindig thing together. He wondered how many other interns had been traumatized this very same way; vindictively he hoped it was a lot. Misery loved company.

Above him he heard the woman laugh, throatily and with an unhealthy amount of wheezing—served the old goat right—but definitely with an excessive amount of amusement at his expense. Fuck it, this was one lady here he hated.

* * *

Once he was no longer bordering on cardiac arrest on the dirty floor, Stiles had headed back to work like the responsible intern he was. And, no, he didn’t take the old lady back to her room because he could be a spiteful bitch when he wanted to be. After once again making rounds to all the patients and getting Mrs. Lenzer’s tox screen and Mr. Hobert’s blood work back from Allison, he decided to pop down to surgical to see how Scott was making out.

He wondered, as he waited for the elevator, if Scott was having the same experience he was. He doubted it; in fact he hoped not because a surgical intern would not get very far at all if they were scared to touch someone. Hell, he wasn’t going to get very far if he didn’t start touching people soon. So, no, Scott was probably in his element; tripping high on adrenaline and surrounded by dudes with too much testosterone and the wonderful smells of sliced and diced human.

Scott grinned at Stiles the moment he saw his best friend, face splitting nearly in two and canines looking dangerously sharp. Stiles half expected his friend’s eyes to flash. “Calm your teeth, Scotty,” Stiles said teasingly as he clapped the werewolf on the shoulder.

Scott rolled his eyes and returned the shoulder clasp. “My teeth are fine,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“What?” Stiles asked leaning against the wall. “I can’t come see my best puppy?”

Scott grinned again and if Stiles didn’t know better he’d say his friend was preening. Which was, actually, a distinct possibility. Much like a dog, Scott enjoyed being praised. It was ridiculous sometimes. “Course you can. But we both know that’s not why you’re here,” Scott said. Damn his perceptiveness. “How’s your day going?” he asked. Double damn.

“Fine,” Stiles said shrugging, going for nonchalant and nailing it, thank you very much. “Yours?”

Scott looked a tiny bit skeptical but his desire to talk about his day must have outweighed that because he didn’t miss much more than a beat before launching into his tale. “Awesome! This morning I had my hands inside some dude’s chest. Like, all the way inside. I couldn’t even see them,” he paused looking vaguely disturbed, “I shouldn’t be allowed to do that.”

“And you weren’t scared?” Stiles asked, shifting. The very thought of sticking _his_ hands that far in some random guy’s chest sure scared the hell out of him. He felt slightly traumatized just hearing about it. There was a reason he was medical and not surgical.

“Nah, dude,” Scott replied. “What’s there to be scared of? You know what the attending said? ‘One way or another, everyone stops bleeding.’ That’s deep, man.”

“No, it’s not,” Allison said, bustling by them quickly. Christ, that woman was everywhere

Scott frowned after her, looking like a kicked puppy. “It’s a little deep.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, I never finished before,” he said switching topics to a conversation he’d started over a day ago. Scott was a used to it; he’d catch up. “I have to tell you about the apartment—”

“Yo, Scotty!”

Stiles jumped at the shout behind him, immediately scowling at the use of what he largely considered one of his copyrighted nicknames for Scott. It was his, okay, regardless of how common it was. Another surgical intern came up raising his hand for a high-five and smacking Scott’s hand solidly before turning to look condescendingly down his nose at Stiles. He was tall, classically handsome, and kind of looked like he had a wooden bat shoved up his ass permanently giving him splinters.

“Stiles, this is Jackson. Jackson, Stiles,” Scott said gesturing between the two of them. Stiles quirked an eyebrow at Scott, silently asking what was up with _Jackson_ , but he was raised to be polite so he gave the other intern a slight wave. As soon as his hand was up above his waist and more or less perpendicular to the floor Jackson moved like a striking cobra and high-fived the hell out of it. Stiles hissed, jerking his hand back in pain and seriously contemplating actually shoving a stick up the dude’s ass.

Jackson smirked slightly then turned to Scott. “Can I talk to you?” Scott glanced at Stiles but nodded, gesturing for Stiles to give him a minute.

Stiles leaned against the wall as Jackson spoke in a slightly hushed tone, trying to ignore the paranoia raising its ugly head as Jackson periodically glanced in his direction. Scott was nodding seriously, though, so Stiles knew they weren’t talking about him. Probably.

It still felt like being back in high school, but he wasn’t surprised. Med school had been similar. See, the surgical interns were all slice and dice. Shove their hands in people’s chests, cut out organs, and sew it all back up. They were the jocks. Medical interns were trained to think about the body. They were trained to diagnose, test, and keep everything on a little notecard. Stiles liked to think of the medical interns as fledgling detectives.

But as his pager went off and he motioned awkwardly to Scott that he had to go, receiving only a little wave and a thumbs up from Scott while Jackson smirked diabolically, well, he could only compare the medical interns to the chess club.

* * *

After a long day and a much too short night, Stiles was back at Sacred Heart. He was waiting at the front doors today for Lydia who had told him, or rather ordered him, to do so yesterday as he was leaving. Man, he wasn’t even dating her yet and he was whipped. Whatever.

He shifted his weight again, craning his neck to peer around the janitor with crazy wild hair working on the door to see if he could catch sight of Lydia’s brilliant strawberry blonde hair. The janitor gave him a once over, looking like he thought Stiles belonged in the psych ward upstairs and not loitering by the door.

“I’m waiting for someone,” Stiles explained on reflex from years of practice excusing his behaviors; the unsaid _I’m not doing anything wrong so stop looking at me like that_ was implied heavily.

The janitor huffed, jiggling a screwdriver into the gap between the door and the ceiling. “Door’s broke. Every fifth time or so it won’t open.”

Stiles shrugged, peering around the man on the ladder again. “Maybe there’s a penny stuck in there,” he commented absently.

The janitor froze, pulling his tool away from the door and turning around slowly. “Why a penny?” he asked.

Stiles blinked. “Uh, I don’t know.”

“Oh, you don’t know, huh? Did you maybe stick a penny in there?” the janitor asked, and maybe _he_ was the one that belonged in the psych ward. He did look a little crazy, hair sticking out in random directions, eyes all squinty while at the same time looking slightly bug-eyed, and he was exhibiting exceptionally paranoid behavior.

“I was just making small talk,” Stiles said, sidling away a bit. He caught a flash of blessed strawberry blonde and took another step.

“If I find a penny in there, I’m taking you down,” the janitor said pointing the screwdriver at Stiles threateningly.

Lydia breezed in like an unaware knight in a shining peacoat, already talking at Stiles though he wasn’t really listening. Instead he just fell into step beside her, glancing back over his shoulder to where the janitor was still glaring. When he finally tuned into what Lydia was saying he’d missed half of her story.

“I think the janitor wants to kill me,” he said distantly.

Lydia stared at him for a full second before rolling her eyes. “Anyway, about eleven hours into being on call last night,” so that was what she was talking about, “my twentieth admission was this little girl who was throwing up blood, and for a second I actually wished it was me.”

Stiles nodded, not really knowing what he was agreeing to. “You know, I’ll bet he’s killed people before,” he said. “I have an eye for it. Killers, they have a very distinctive look.”

Lydia huffed irately coming to a stop and crossing her arms. “Really? What about me?”

Stiles frowned, still thinking about the janitor and slightly worried there actually was a penny stuck in that door. “What about you?”

“Do I look like a killer?”

Stiles instantly redirected his attention staring at Lydia who was raising one eyebrow expectantly. He swallowed. “You've definitely thought about it.”

Lydia smiled at that, tilting her head to the side. “I have,” she said nodding appreciatively. Stiles breathed a slight sigh of relief as they started walking again.

“So, you know, we’re both off Monday night,” he said. “And you never did leave your hair down again yesterday, so if you wanna repay that favor, I thought maybe we could—”

Lydia smacked a hand to his chest giving him another one of her smiles; the one that was twenty-five percent sweet, seventy percent devious, five percent lip-gloss, and one hundred percent breathtaking.

“I like Italian food. The movie we’re seeing starts at nine. Pick me up at seven, we’ll eat at seven-thirty, and for the love of God, don’t wear those shoes,” she said patting his chest affectionately, scowling at his shoes, and disappearing into the stairwell before he could reply.

Stiles stood in shock for a full three seconds before what happened really sunk in. Then, maybe, he whooped for joy like the five year old he secretly was before darting after her. Really, if he stood around much longer celebrating he’d be late for rounds.

Lydia sent him a small grin once he finally made it to the first room for rounds just as Dr. Argent began talking. Stiles grinned back moving to stand next to her, not even caring if he wasn’t hearing the doctor, because, hot damn he had a date with this girl. The girl of his dreams.

“—the necrosis and infected stool most likely indicate what, Dr. Stilinksi?”

Wait, what? Shit. Quick, think, necrosis and infected stool? That could be a bunch of things; what was the rest of the question?

Panicked, Stiles glanced at Lydia. He’d helped her, she would help him, right? Quid pro quo. Plus, they had a date. But Lydia looked as lost as he was, perhaps she hadn’t been listening either. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Uh,” Stiles said, swallowing and accepting his fate. “Sir, I have no idea.”

Dr. Argent sighed. “Well, I’m very disappointed in you, son. Dr. Martin, can you help him out.”

Stiles winced in sympathy, glancing at her and ready to give her a nudge of support, but she simply straightened and said, “I’d say it’s superior mesenteric insufficiency.”

“That’s my girl,” Dr. Argent said. “Moving on.”

Stiles stared, slack jawed and betrayed, as Lydia made no eye contact what so ever with him and simply moved on. Like she hadn’t just stabbed him in the back. Like she hadn’t just let him get run over by the metaphorical truck.

She ignored him for the rest of rounds. Stiles mentally cancelled their date. And maybe thought a bit about murder.

* * *

His dad used to always say, “Son, the only way to bounce back is to stay positive.” To be accurate he still said it a lot. So Stiles tried. He gathered his patient’s charts and set off.

His first patient was a middle-aged woman who was sitting in bed reading the newspaper and listening to an iPod when Stiles came into the room. “Hi, Mrs. Pratt,” he said making sure to keep his tone light and happy. “I’m here to remove some of that pesky fluid from your stomach, relieve a bit of that pressure.”

“Shut up and do it,” Mrs. Pratt grunted, never looking away from her newspaper. Stiles whistled lowly. Okay, then.

“Fantastic,” he said looking around at the tools for the procedure. He briefly contemplated going to get a nurse—the needle was huge, okay—but, no, he needed to do this as some point and it may as well be on the angry woman who already didn’t like him. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to roll over for just a second,” he said. As soon as she did so, begrudgingly Stiles noted, he flipped to his Intern Manual and quickly located the procedure. Like most of the procedures, Stiles had it memorized, but there was still a niggling doubt at the back of his brain that pushed him to double check. Okay, triple check.

“Dude, that’s pathetic.”

Stiles jerked, dropping the papers back down to cover his manual. He glared at Scott, immediately shushing his friend, and looking the procedure up one more time.

“You can roll back, ma’am. Now this’ll just take a second,” Stiles said ignoring Scott as the surgeon leaned in the doorway. Mrs. Pratt went back to reading her paper and Stiles pulled her gown out of the way before sterilizing the area. He picked up the needle, swallowing at the size and pressed the tip against her stomach. As before, he hesitated right as it was poised to break skin. He took a deep breath, acutely conscious of Scott watching. Now was not a good time to freak out and fail at a simple procedure. It wasn’t _that_ difficult; what was hard about jamming a razor sharp needle into her gut? Nothing, that’s what.

“I think this needle is too big,” Stiles said, chickening out and loosing what little face he had left with Scott. Which wasn’t that big of a deal; after twelve years there wasn’t much left to loose. “I’m gonna get a nurse.”

Scott sighed, rolling his eyes. He snatched the needle from Stiles’ hand. “Learn by doing, man,” he said, “learn by doing.”

Scott shoved the needle into Mrs. Pratt’s stomach without a second thought. Stiles glared at him, maybe even hated him a bit, for being able to do that. Scott who hadn’t dreamed of being a doctor since he was a kid, who hadn’t had four mental meltdowns in the past eight years, and who hadn’t juggled med school, a father with multiple health scares, financial crises, and a learning disability just to make it to this point. Scott who always seemed to have things come to him far easier than they came to Stiles.

“There,” Scott said removing the needle with a flourish. Stiles scowled harder then jumped back as a stream of fluid began squirting out of Mrs. Pratt’s stomach like Scott had just jabbed a water balloon with a pin. Reacting quickly, Stiles grabbed a piece of gauze and pressed it on the hole.

Scott frowned glancing between the needle and the gauze that was rapidly dampening beneath Stiles’ fingers. “Maybe the needle was too big,” he said.

“You think?” Stiles snapped. “How do I seal this up?”

Scott shrugged. “Maybe superglue?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, and if looks could kill Scott would be a smoldering pile of ash at this point. Mrs. Pratt flicked her paper down abruptly. “What’s going on down there?” she said a little loudly, probably due to the music still blaring in her ear.

Scott cleared his throat, visibly trying not to laugh. Stiles wanted to hit him. Hard. “This is totally normal, ma’am,” Scott said, glancing at Stiles.

“Right,” Stiles said forcing a smile. “Just have to put some pressure on it.”

Mrs. Pratt harrumphed but went back to reading anyway. Scott leaned his hip against the bed, facing Stiles and growing serious. Stiles’ stomach flipped over and twisted in on itself. “What?”

“I actually came by to talk to you about the apartment,” Scott said.

Stiles nodded picking the conversation back up with ease. “Are you going to move your stuff in tonight?” he asked. Because, yeah, right now he kind of hated Scott a little, but at the end of the day having Scott living with him again would make everything just that little bit simpler and more normal. And Stiles could use a little normal right now.

“Ah, no, actually,” Scott said. “I just feel like we’ve done that already, you know?”

And, yeah, objectively they had but that didn’t mean anything. If anything, the fact that they’d roomed together in college and med school meant they should _continue_ doing so now. “I mean you and I will keep our standing full moon dates of course, but I think it might be good for us to branch out a bit,” Scott continued. “What do you think?”

Stiles swallowed looking back to the gauze on Mrs. Pratt’s stomach. He thought it was a terrible idea. He missed Scott, as stupid as that sounded right now. He needed the stability Scott offered; he needed Scott to look him in the eye and say everything was going to be fine just like he had when Stiles had gotten the news of his father’s heart attack right before that big exam last year. Change was always hard on Stiles; he was good at adapting, yeah, but routine was his best friend after Scott and Sacred Heart was tearing his old routine to shreds.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I feel the same way.”

And he was a goddamn liar. Scott narrowed his eyes but nodded and left the room. Figured that when the lies suited Scott he wouldn’t call Stiles out on them. Stiles lifted the gauze a bit wincing when the fluid shot right back up again. He grabbed another piece of gauze and pressed it down with a sigh. What the hell was he doing?

* * *

As he left Mrs. Pratt’s room, after her stomach had finally stopped imitating a geyser, Allison waylaid him almost immediately. “Bambi, I need you to check over Mr. Burski,” she said handing over the chart.

Stiles nodded, reading over the pertinent information quickly as he made his way to the patient’s room. Mr. Burski was an older gentleman, sixty-seven, in for stomach pains. “Hello, Mr. Burski, my name’s Dr. Stilinski,” Stiles said. “I’m here to give you a physical, okay?”

The man nodded. “Sounds good to me, Doc.”

Stiles smiled and began running through all the basic tests. Everything looked fine until he monitored Mr. Burski’s heartbeat. Stiles frowned, readjusting his stethoscope and moving it from the patient’s chest to his back then to his chest again. Yep, definitely a systolic murmur there.

Stiles placed his stethoscope back around his neck, checked Mr. Burski’s past medical history, then poked his head out the door catching Allison’s attention. “What’s up, Bambi?”

“Mr. Burski has a heart murmur. I want to get an ECG on him just to make sure it’s harmless,” he said.

Allison nodded moving towards the nursing station. “Sure thing, I’ll give them a call, you take him up.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said before turning back to his patient. “All right, Mr. Burski, I have to be honest, I heard some slightly concerning things from your heart. I’m gonna have you get an ECG just to check it out.”

The older man rolled his eyes but obligingly sat in the wheelchair for Stiles to push. When they made it in the elevator Mr. Burski huffed, “I just have bad gas. What are you testing me for?”

Stiles pressed the floor he needed, waiting for the doors to close before replying, “To see if your gas is harmful to others.”

The other passengers glared at him, some not so subtly shifting away from Mr. Burski. Stiles wondered if telling them that was pointless was a good idea or not. Mr. Burski chuckled reaching back to pat Stiles’ hand. “Oh, I like you,” he said.

“Truthfully, Mr. Burski,” Stiles said as he wheeled the man from the elevator. “I heard a systolic murmur in your heart. It’s most likely nothing, but if you don’t let me check it out I’m going to worry about you all day.”

Mr. Burski twisted around to peer up at Stiles’ face. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “It would drive me crazy, and trust me when I say I don’t need any help in that department.”

Mr. Burski nodded silently for a moment then turned back around. “Then I’ll do it. For you.” Stiles patted his shoulder and resumed moving them down the hall. “So what’s it like being a young hotshot doctor these days?”

Stiles chuckled. Maybe a little sullenly. “Did you ever go to see a movie that everyone told you was great, and then because of all those expectations, you ended up totally disappointed?” he asked.

Mr. Burski huffed again, haughtily this time. “Movies nowadays have too many special effects.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, “that was pretty much my point.”

“Kid, you want to know my philosophy of life?” Mr. Burski said. “It might help.”

“Sure, lay it on me, man.”

Mr. Burski grinned, leaning back too peer up at Stiles and saying firmly, “The hell with everything.”

Stiles mulled it over in his head a moment. “I like that,” he said. “Simple yet elegant.” His pager went off suddenly, and Stiles dropped one hand from the wheelchair to look at the screen. Damnit, a patient was coding. Stiles flagged down an orderly, handing over Mr. Burski with a brief order to take him to get an ECG, and then he was sprinting down the hall.

A patient was coding. His _first_ code. When a patient’s heart failed, they paged everyone, and the first doctor in had to run the room, tell everyone what to do, and basically decide if the patient lived or died.

Stiles stumbled to a halt; what was he crazy?

Somehow he ended up in a closet. Hiding like the coward he was. With Lydia Martin.

“You chicken,” he said pressed shoulder to shoulder with her in the supply room. So maybe he was still a little bitter about earlier.

“Me?” Lydia said sounding scandalized. “Look at you!”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but refrained from retorting because, yeah, point taken. “What are you doing in here anyway, Ms. Competent?”

Lydia sniffed condescendingly. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Oh really,” Stiles said. “Well maybe you should at least explain what the hell you were thinking earlier. I thought, I don’t know, maybe we _cared_ about each other.”

Now it was Lydia’s turn to roll her eyes. “Oh please. If you didn’t want to sleep with me you would have done the same thing,” she said, her words scathing

“I didn’t want to sleep with you,” Stiles said honestly. Well, okay, like twelve percent honestly. An argument could be made for fifteen. He didn’t _only_ want to sleep with Lydia. And he would have helped her regardless anyway. Because he was a good person. Mostly.

“Right,” Lydia said with an unflattering snort, “and Scott’s getting married.”

Whoops, he’d forgotten about that. “He is. Eventually. And, I’ll tell you one thing; there’s nothin’ in the world that would make me sleep with ya now.”

Lydia tilted her head, eyeing him suggestively and trailing a slender finger up the front of his scrubs. “Really?” She stepped closer. “If I apologize, will you do me right here? Right now?”

Stiles’ brain flat lined. Fuck. Yep, he totally would.

Lydia grinned and stepped away, rolling her eyes as Stiles trailed after her for half a step. “See?” she said.

Stiles blinked, getting his brain back up to full functioning capacity. “You’re evil,” he hissed. Lydia flipped her hair over her shoulder uncaringly. “You’re a, a, a _succubus_ ,” Stiles said unable to come up with a better insult, and, hey, for all he knew she could be.

Lydia snorted again. “Yeah. _That’s_ what I am.”

Stiles shook his head; that wasn’t really the response he’d been expecting and was he imagining the emphasis on the word that? Before he could ask the door was yanked open, fluorescent light flooding the small space and making him blink his eyes rapidly.

Dr. Hale shook his head. “Right. Hand me a trach kit, please?”

Stiles hesitated then twisted around, locating the requested packet and quickly handing the trach kit over. Dr. Hale gave one last sigh then shut the door, blanketing Stiles and Lydia in shadows once more.

“Great.” Lydia seemed more upset about it then he was.

Stiles nodded. This day was just going fantastically. “Oh, by the way, our date is cancelled.”

* * *

Stiles knocked his head against the door he was sitting against. “Come on,” he said, “I’ve got like ten minutes to sleep.”

He was sitting on the floor outside the on-call room for two reasons. One, he’d tried to lock Lydia in the supply closet after telling her their date was cancelled—she’d had _murder_ in her _eyes_ , okay—and she’d kicked him. Hard. And, two, the door was locked. Probably so the two idiots in there could have sex. Stiles was pretty sure one of the two idiots in there was Scott, the deserting freak. He’d heard from one of the other medical interns, who’d heard from one of the surgical interns, that Scott was moving in with Jackson. _Jackson_! Stiles was surprised Jackson wasn’t the other person in there—Idiot Número Dos was definitely female—what with his passive aggressive high-fiving to steal Scott away from Stiles.

So Scott got to ditch him and hook up in the on-call room, while Stiles sat out here, on the floor, all alone. Not sleeping. At this point even if Lydia came up and seriously propositioned him, he’d turn her down. Because he was so exhausted. And because she was an evil, soul sucking succubus.

The door opened suddenly, and Stiles barely caught himself as he fell backwards. He tilted his head back, and Allison grinned down at him. “Hey Bambi,” she said ruffling his hair as she walked by.

“Hey, I’ll, uh, I’ll call you later,” Scott called after her. Stiles tilted his head back further not at all surprised to see Scott standing naked in the middle of the room. God, he hated the bastard sometimes.

“You coming in?” Scott asked.

Stiles closed his eyes. His life was ridiculous. “I’ll wait until you’re not naked,” he said.

“Good call,” Scott replied. He pushed the door closed, pushing Stiles with it. The hell with everything, Stiles thought leaning his head back and closing his eyes, he’d sleep right here.

Of course, that was when the door yanked open again. Stiles didn’t bother catching himself this time; his head kind of stung from where it hit the floor. Scott stared down at him, looking slightly concerned. “You all right?”

Stiles touched his pointer to his thumb, splaying out his remaining three fingers in the universal sign of Just Friggin’ Peachy. Scott sighed. “She rejected me,” he said glumly. Stiles rolled his eyes but held a hand out for Scott to help him up. Scott obligingly pulled him to his feet still going on about Allison’s rejection. Stiles was still trying to figure out how they went from two people who barely knew each other to almost sexing it up in the on-call room. “She said I have a God complex and am married to my work. Plus, she was talking at me in _French_. Stiles, I don’t speak French!”

“She calls me Bambi,” Stiles said. Scott glared at him. “Oh, sorry, I thought we were listing the annoying stuff Allison does.”

“You’re not being very helpful,” Scott said.

Stiles shrugged. “I wasn't trying to be.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man. Just, just grab your z’s,” he grumbled before stalking away. Apparently Stiles had pissed him off. Ha.

“Hey Bambi!” Allison called from the nursing station before Stiles could disappear into the on-call room. She smiled and inclined her head to an orderly pushing Mr. Burski down the hall. Stiles groaned but pushed himself off the wall, trying to shake the exhaustion off so he could maintain his happy doctor persona. It wasn’t too hard, he _was_ happy to see the man; actually delivering good news would be awesome. He intercepted the orderly, thanking the man before addressing Mr. Burski. “You look adorable,” he said smirking.

Mr. Burski laughed pinching the flower-patterned gown he was wearing between his fingers to proudly display it. “Ah, the hell with everything,” he said.

“So,” Stiles said, “I got your test results back, and you’re gonna be just fine. One more night and then you’re busting out of here.”

Mr. Burski covered Stiles’ hand with his own, squeezing gently. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Stiles nodded, returning the smile and welcoming the rush of warmth filling his chest. This right here was why he wanted to be a doctor. “No problem, Mr. Bruski.”

He straightened, accepting the chart from the orderly to sign. Another patient whistled loudly. “Hey nurse, nursey, cutie pie,” he called. Stiles twisted around, because the dude was sure as _hell_ not talking to him.

“I’m a doctor, okay,” Lydia snapped and Stiles swore most grown men would wail in fear from her death glare. “Stethoscope, pager, doctor, got it?” She paused, staring at Mr. Burski a moment before shaking her head and dropping her charts on the nursing station’s counter.

“Relax,” Allison said, and Stiles reassessed his love for that woman. She was a godsend in this place.

“I just hate it,” Lydia said, angrily tying her hair back in a bun. “I’m sick of the darlins and I’m sick of the sweethearts. I didn’t work my ass off through school for sexist bullshit.”

Allison sighed flipping through some charts as she rounded the counter to come stand next to Lydia. “You don’t need to tell me how hard it is to be a woman around here.”

“Well, you’re certainly furthering the cause by wearing a thong to work and hooking up in the on-call room,” Lydia said, not looking at Allison as she marked on her charts. If she had, she may have stopped and apologized. Stiles definitely would have; Allison had murder brewing in _her_ eyes. “Yeah, word gets around.”

“You talk like that, do you even know my name?” Allison asked, tone sharp and angry, harsh in a way Stiles hadn’t heard her sound like yet. Lydia glanced up, seeming to sense that she’d made a mistake. “I’m thirty-two, I spend every second of my life here or at home taking care of my dad, so yeah, maybe I needed a little closeness. I’m sure you’ve _never_ had a quickie at the club or snuck some skinny, flat-butted, college boy up to your sorority room, and _you_ judge _me_?” Allison said incredulously. Lydia still looked a bit shocked, like she hadn’t expected the nurse go off on her for the comment. “As for my thong, I think it makes my _ass_ look great and some days I need to feel good about something. And, guess what, word does get around, _Ms. Out For Herself_ , so you can dump on everyone here if you want, but you will _not_ hurt me,” Allison finished, turning on her heel and stalking away. She pushed by Stiles roughly. If Stiles didn’t know better he’d say she looked like she was about to cry. Lydia stared after her, expression unreadable but approaching something like regret. Maybe.

“Look at you,” Stiles said to dispel the awful awkward silence that had fallen and because it was a proven fact he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, like, ever, “makin’ new friends.” Lydia gathered herself visibly turning to level Stiles with the harshest glare yet. “Her name’s Allison, by the way,” Stiles added. She glared harder, if that was even possible, and Stiles pointed down the hall quickly grabbing Mr. Burski’s wheelchair and whisking them both to safety.

* * *

Stiles was on-call tonight.

In four minutes and twenty-three seconds.

Fuck.

He was so screwed.

Four minutes.

Dr. Hale strode into the room doing a double take of Stiles curled on the chair staring resolutely at the clock. Dr. Hale huffed, scrubbing a hand over his face and making to leave the room before spinning back with a sigh. “I’m going to regret asking this, I know I will, but what is wrong with you, Newbie?”

I’m worried about being on-call, Stiles thought. “Scott practically had sex in the on-call room. And not for the first time apparently,” he said instead, good to know his default reflex to lie was still intact, “so I couldn’t get any sleep.”

Dr. Hale rolled his eyes. “You realize I have no idea who Scott is, but good for him. That’s also not the problem.” The other man narrowed his eyes like he could read the answer in Stiles’ face if he just looked hard enough. “You’re worried about being on-call tonight.”

Stiles sniffed derisively. “No.”

“You don’t think you can handle it, do you?” Dr. Hale said.

Precisely, Stiles thought. “No. Yes. I mean, I can handle it. Stop doing that.”

“Look,” Dr. Hale said crossing his arms and staring down his nose at Stiles. “Worst case scenario, you kill someone and it hangs over your head the rest of your pathetic life, but that’s the absolute worst case.”

Stiles swallowed, stomach twisting impossibly tighter. He was going to puke.

“Jeeze, Newbie, just use the nurses for all of the stuff you’re still too chicken to do, which is, I’m assuming, _everything_ at this point. And if there’s a really tough admission—”

“Call you?” Stiles said hopefully.

“God, no,” Dr. Hale said making an abortive gesture with his hand. “I was going to say you can just hide in the closet again.” He rubbed a hand over his face once more, gave Stiles one last disgusted look then left the room as quickly as he’d entered, leaving Stiles even more tightly wound than before.

Stiles glanced at the clock again. Forty-two seconds to eight o’clock. He tentatively unfurled himself, straightening his legs and standing. He took a deep breath. He could totally do this. Totally.

“Hey, Champ. First night on call starts soon, excited?”

No. Puking is still on the table. “You betcha, Dr. Argent,” Stiles said giving the man a thumbs up.

Dr. Argent smiled. “Oh, about Mrs. Pratt. I heard you want to put her on the hospital’s transplant list.”

Stiles frowned a bit. “Yeah. Her renal failure is advancing.”

“Yes, I know. Just thought I’d recommend sticking with dialysis a while longer,” Dr. Argent said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Okay, sir, no problem,” Stiles said, shrugging.

Dr. Argent grinned, patting Stiles on the shoulder in camaraderie. “Great. Have a ball on-call. Little poem for ya.”

Stiles forced a laugh; Dr. Argent was still weird. Stiles stared after him as he left the room before flicking his gaze back up to the clock. The numbers ticked over to eight o’clock. He was officially on-call. The room shrank around him, squeezing around Stiles’ throat and threatening to strangle him. His pager went off and the night began.

* * *

It went about as well as he expected. Late night admissions were frequent and full of drunks, homelessness, drug addicts, drag queens, small children, hysterical parents, and more. It passed in a hazy blur. At one point another doctor did a spinal tap on a woman; Stiles couldn’t watch, had flinched away. Stiles tried on seven separate occasions before midnight to place an IV, but his hands were too shaky to even approach doing it safely and correctly. By 0030, he was starving. He’s not proud about it, but he did steal half of a patient’s cold hamburger while he checked their vitals. It was awful. Stiles made a mental note to bring his own food from now on. At 0134 Stiles escaped to the on-call room falling into the bottom bunk. He wasn’t really tired, hell he’d been pulling all-nighters since middle school and his brain didn’t really have an off switch, but emotionally he was drained and longed for the escape of dreamland. At 0141 Allison nudged the door open and gently shook his shoulder, beckoning him back out to the floor. It was 0215 when Nurse Roberts flicked his ear, shocking him awake even as he was doing an abdominal exam on a patient, and 0230 when a nurse shoved him out of the way angrily to place the IV he couldn’t.

It was 0256 when Stiles was promising to check on a patient every ten minutes and Nurse Roberts came up behind him saying, “I need you in Mr. Burski’s room.”

Stiles studied her blank face for a moment. “Are you flirting with me?” he asked unsure if his overworked brain was playing tricks on him. She rolled her eyes, motioning for Stiles to follow her. He left Mrs. Marino with another nurse promising to come right back, before darting off after Nurse Roberts.

She stopped just outside of Mr. Burski’s darkened room, and Stiles stared at her, shocked, before moving past her into the room. He stopped halfway to the bed, unable to force himself closer. His heart was pounding in his ears nearly drowning out Nurse Robert’s voice.

“He crashed while you were admitting in the ER. The attending thinks it was a pulmonary embolism, no way anyone could’ve caught it,” she said. “Anyway, you have to pronounce him.”

“The tests said he was fine. Why didn’t anyone page me?” Stiles said, staring at the still body on the bed. Moonlight filtered through the windows, bathing Mr. Burski in pale light and accentuating his stillness. He was still wearing that stupid flower print gown. Stiles swallowed hard, mind rushing through what he knew of Mr. Burski’s family and ashamed that his final thought settled on how hard this was for _him_.

“Could you just pronounce him so I can go home?” Nurse Roberts said exasperated.

“Time of death,” Stiles said quietly, “0300.” He heard Nurse Roberts muttering under her breath as she pushed away from the doorframe. There was a patient waiting for him to check on her and an endless line of them stretching before him, but he couldn't make himself leave the room just yet. He’d just wanted to help people.

The hell with everything.

* * *

The hardest part was how quickly he had to move on. It was late and he wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball in the corner and maybe cry, but Stiles was tending to a pizza delivery kid who had given himself a concussion instead.

“What happened?” the kid asked trying to rise up from where he was lying and waiting for his CT scan.

“You were delivering a pizza to the emergency room,” Stiles said pushing him back down, “and apparently our sliding glass door is still malfunctioning, and you just ran right into the glass. You’re going to be fine, but you somehow managed to give yourself a good concussion, so you might have a little short-term memory loss and possibly some nausea.”

The pizza guy nodded. “So what happened?”

Oh my god, make it stop, Stiles thought hysterically, make it all stop.

“I lied before,” someone said. Stiles jumped, sighing in relief when he saw it was just Scott, dressed in street clothes and obviously heading out. “I mean, I know _you_ lied, but so did I. I’m scared all the time.”

Stiles smiled slightly. “Really?”

Scott shook his head walking into the room. “Jeeze, Stiles, yeah. All the blood,” he shuddered, “it’s a good thing they have us wear surgical masks, dude, because otherwise everyone would know that I look like this the whole time.” He opened his mouth wide and arched his eyebrows in exaggerated terror. The expression didn’t work for him. Stiles laughed feeling a bit of the weight crushing his chest ease off a bit.

“I think, I think it’s okay to be scared,” he said, and he actually did. It felt good to admit it to someone who would take him seriously.

Scott grinned at him. “Yeah? I need you to tell me stuff like that once in a while. I think I get a little lost trying to be the fearless alpha wolf. Anyway,” he said clearing his throat, “I just wanted to check on you.”

“You know,” Stiles said impulsively as Scott went to leave, “the offer still stands if you want to move in with—”

Scott spun around with an even wider grin opening his clasped hand to reveal the shiny new key Stiles had gotten made for him, because there had never been a question for him as to whether Scott would live with him or not. “Already took the key from your bag. See you at home, man.” Scott saluted him and disappeared through the doorway. Stiles chuckled and shook his head looking back to his patient. Just like that he got a second wind.

“What happened?” the pizza guy asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said with a smile. “Now lay back.”

* * *

There were countless more patients and tasks Stiles had to see and complete, but knowing that Scott was back at their apartment, probably completely destroying his disorganized organization system, helped settle him. It was enough to get him through meeting the Burski’s family. It was enough to get him through the sixteen year old who coded in the ER after a heroin overdose. It was enough to get him though the eight year old who screamed bloody murder at him when he tried to tend the two-inch cut on her arm.

By the time morning rolled around Stiles was perched on a gurney, enjoying the free ride down the hallway. He perused his most recent admission’s chart making some notes in the pertinent areas. The gurney-train passed the janitor who held up a penny menacingly and sent Stiles the crazy eyes. Stiles hopped off the gurney, shooting the janitor a skittish look before slinking down the hallway.

“Are you telling everyone that I screwed you over at rounds?” Lydia asked coming up behind him, ignoring his startled flailing and falling in step with him. She readjusted her purse strap leveling Stiles with a scorching glare. Honestly, he may have been better off with the janitor.

“Not everyone,” he said. Actually, he hadn’t told anyone, so he was a bit confused but whatever. “Only the people that work here. Oh, and my dad.” Okay, so he would be telling his dad. No judgment; after the whole werewolf incident he told his dad everything. Well, almost everything. There were just some things his dad never needed or wanted to know.

Lydia huffed at him and split off angrily, probably heading to her locker. Stiles dropped his chart off at the nursing station and stopped in to check on Mrs. Marino before heading to the penthouse to grab some more coffee.

“Morning,” Dr. Argent said smiling broadly from where he was sitting reading a patient’s chart as Stiles entered. “How’re you holding up there, champ?”

Stiles immediately felt more relaxed. It was odd, and a bit of a shame really, that Dr. Argent was the Chief of Medicine instead of an attending with more time for the interns and patients. With his more personable persona he’d do a better job at it than Dr. Hale. “I’m doing okay, actually,” he said.

Dr. Argent closed the chart he was reading as he stood up. “I saw that you’re still pushing to put Mrs. Pratt on the transplant list. Bad news though, sport, she doesn’t have the insurance to cover it.”

Stiles shook his head as he fiddled with the coffee machine wincing a bit at the sludge that filtered out into his cup. Yay, hospital coffee, stuff was toxic. “Yeah, but she’s like a second away from total renal failure.”

“Uh-huh, okay. Did you ask the Burski family for permission to do an autopsy?” Dr. Argent asked changing the subject.

Stiles furrowed his brow in confusion, wondering exactly where the Pratt issue had been left. As for the Burski family, he’d called them to deliver the news not long after he’d pronounced Mr. Burski. There had been the expected crying and explaining of just what had happened. The last Stiles saw Mr. Burski’s family was still in the room. “Um, they’re still in there with him so…” he trailed off uncertainly.

Dr. Argent arched his eyebrows. “This is a teaching hospital, son. Gotta ask,” he said not unkindly and moving as if to leave.

Stiles swallowed. Okay, truth be told he hadn’t asked the Burski family for permission to do an autopsy yet because he literally did not think he could face them again after meeting with them earlier. “Sir, do you think I could just skip this one?” he asked.

“Sure, sport,” Dr. Argent said clasping his hands behind his back. “In fact, why don’t you just head home, you look a little tired.”

“Ahhh,” Stiles said, sensing the conversation was about to take a nose-dive and unsure why, “I am kind of tired.”

“Mr. Stilinski, do you not realize that you’re nothing but a couple of large pairs of scrubs to me?” Dr. Argent growled.

And there it was. Harsh.

“For God’s sake, the reason I carry this chart around is so I can pretend to remember all your damn names. Now, if the patient has insurance, treat them. If not, show them the door. And if someone dies, you get the autopsy! You get Burski by rounds tomorrow, or I’ll be crossing your name off my chart, are we clear?” Dr. Argent shouted. Stiles stared open mouthed and leaned back in shock. “Answer me!”

“Clear as, uh, vodka, sir,” Stiles stuttered out. And, damn, maybe Dr. Argent _was_ Satan. A demon at the very least.

“Great, sport,” Dr. Argent said, back to his regular self. It gave Stiles whiplash. Like literal mental whiplash. He turned slowly as Argent left. Lydia stood by the coffee machine looking as shocked as he felt, eyes a bit wide and eyebrows high. She opened her mouth to say something, probably something scathing and derisive, but Stiles’ pager went off. Another code. He swore and pushed by her to run from the room.

* * *

“Car accident,” Allison reported as he skidded up to her and Dr. Hale pulling on his gloves frantically. Dr. Hale just glanced at him, calmly standing on the other side of the bed. “He was stable in the ER,” she continued, “Crashed on the way up.”

“We need to relieve the pressure in his chest. Stiles, do it,” Dr. Hale ordered, taking his sweet damn time pulling on his own gloves.

And, no, Stiles couldn’t do it. Couldn’t cut the guy open and shove a tube in his chest. Hell, three hours ago he couldn’t even place an IV. He probably _still_ couldn’t place an IV.

“Hey, look at me.” Stiles did, feeling the fear showing plainly on his face and not even caring. “You can do this,” Dr. Hale said, sounding more reassuring than ever before. And Stiles believed him.

You know, mostly.

“Chest tube tray,” Stiles said, voice cracking on the last word. Way to sound confident in his hundred thousand dollar skills. Stiles froze, faltering even as Allison handed him the scalpel. He placed a steadying hand on the man’s chest laying the scalpel against the skin between the ribs. Oh God, he couldn't do it. And some poor kid was going to die because Stiles couldn’t pluck up enough courage to get his hands to stop shaking.

“Stiles,” Dr. Hale said, still speaking in that infuriatingly calm tone. Couldn’t he see Stiles was freaking out here? “Cut him or loose him.”

Stiles made the incision—he _wasn’t_ loosing another one—deliberately not focusing on the thin line of blood that leaked through. He dropped the scalpel back on the tray, picking up the clamped tube and pushing it in to the small hole he’d made. It slipped in his fingers, pushing up against the resistance of the lining of the chest. Oh man, oh fuck, oh dear god. “I can’t get it through the pleura,” he said wishing desperately that Dr. Hale would just take it out of his hands. He wasn’t ready for this.

“Don’t be gentle,” Dr. Hale coached. “Come on now, shove it in there.”

Stiles pushed again, letting out a shaky laugh of relief when it slid in all the way. Immediately he handed it off to Allison. “Connect it, please Allison.”

She did so, plugging the open end of the tube into the vacuum; it instantly began filling with fluid. The heart monitor beeped, picking back up a stronger beat. “Normal rhythm,” she said shoulders dropping with relief.

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathed placing steadying hands on the bed to keep himself from falling to the floor. His legs kind of felt like jelly.

“See? Piece of cake,” Dr. Hale said. He pulled off his gloves, flinging them towards a trashcan and rounding the bed. “He’s your patient.”

“What? You’re leaving?” Stiles asked, slightly panicked.

Dr. Hale clapped him hard on the shoulder and pointed at the man on the bed. “That’s your patient, Doctor.”

“Bambi,” Allison said. Stiles shifted his attention to her, helping clean up around the incision and apply the bandage. When he turned back around Dr. Hale was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up.

Allison rolled her eyes. “Go ahead,” she said with a slight smile. Stiles threw his arms in the air whooping in victory. Quietly though; this was a hospital. “Okay, Bambi, that’s enough.”

“Sorry,” he said not feeling sorry in the least. “This is a big moment for me.”

Allison hummed disinterestedly, but really nothing could dampen his mood right now. He grabbed his patient’s chart and set about doing what he’d always wanted to do. Be a damn good doctor.

* * *

Stiles groaned rolling his sore shoulders and hiking his backpack up a little higher. Thirty-one hours, twelve minutes, and there was just one more thing to do before he could go home.

“You finally off?” Lydia asked intercepting him in the hallway. Stiles sighed scrubbing his hand through his hair; damn he needed a shower.

“Almost,” Stiles said. “Just one more thing I have to do.”

Lydia nodded tapping her pen on the charts she was holding. “If you’re talking about the Burski autopsy, I already called the family for you. They said fine and to tell you thank you.”

Stiles furrowed his eyebrow in confusion. “What? Why would you do that?”

Lydia rolled her eyes, scoffing. “I just called people, Stiles. I didn’t buy you a diamond ring.”

Stiles laughed shaking his head. He eyed her speculatively. “Is this your way of saying sorry without really saying the words ‘I’m’ or ‘sorry’ in a sentence directed at me?” he asked.

“Just accept the gesture and be happy about it,” Lydia said crossly perching one hand on her hip. “And don’t expect anything else.”

“Right,” Stiles said with a chuckle. “Well, thank you, Lyds.”

The other intern shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he replied, filing ‘Lyds’ away as the perfect nickname and turning to walk towards the door.

“Hey Stiles, wait,” Lydia called. He halted, spinning on his heel and waiting expectantly. Lydia sighed, pushing her curls behind her ear. “I am, by the way, I’m…sorry. About what I said earlier. I know you didn’t help me just because you wanted to sleep with me.”

“How do you know that?” Stiles asked crossing his arms and arching an eyebrow.

Lydia laughed and it was a pleasant, genuine sound. “Because you gave Jared an answer too. And I don’t think you want to sleep with him.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose at the thought of the overly nervous intern who was prone to puking. “Yeah, no, not exactly my type,” he said.

“I know,” Lydia said. “So, yeah, that’s all I wanted to say.” Her pager went off suddenly, and she sighed glancing down at it to read the message. “Have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest, Stiles, you look terrible,” she said giving him a slight wave and jogging off in the direction of the elevator.

Stiles sighed. It was too bad he’d never be able to forgive her. Oh, who was he kidding? He’d already forgiven her. Because he was pathetic.

“Bambi,” Allison called as she headed to the front desk. “What are you waiting for? Get out while you still can.”

She gave Stiles a beautiful smile making a shooing motion as Stiles waved at her. His first three days were over, finally. They were certainly illuminating. He knew now even when he left he wouldn’t be entirely free. When he got home and went to sleep, the hospital would still be here. Wide awake and waiting for him to come back tomorrow. But it didn’t matter. The most important thing was he’d made it through. Yeah, things had been difficult. People had died, but people had lived too. And he’d been a major part of that. Plus, he’d made it through three days without looking like a complete idiot. His dad would be so proud when Stiles told him.

Stiles turned his pager off, grinning as he headed for the exit. The janitor glared at him and Stiles forced himself to wave.

And promptly collided with the broken sliding glass door before falling flat on his ass.

Goddamn that hurt, he thought pressing a hand to his forehead carefully.

“Bambi?”

“If you ask me," the janitor said sniffing disinterestedly, "he had it coming.”

Stiles groaned. The hell with everything.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


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